Roommates From Hell
by KatxValentine
Summary: Set pre-Dark Side of the Moon and beginning Saviors and Hellion Smiles: Collab. between KatxValentine and Harlequin Sequins Chelsea Grant needs a roommate. Unfortunately, Harvey Tinkle fits that bill.


**Authors' Notes: **

**Author's Note (KatxValentine): **

**Welcome to the wonderful world known as  
'people who love their OCs too much'. The everbrilliant Harley Quinn and  
myself have decided to collaborate our misfortune females with infatuations  
for the Clown Prince of Crime, and thus is this installment. It takes place  
before my Dark Side of the Moon, and in the dead beginning of Harley's grand  
Saviors and Hellion Smiles. Thus, this will be going to a deathly strange  
place, once we've got all the plot nice and straightened out. D**

**Author's Note (Harlequin Sequins):**

**Hahah, Kat. You're such a gameshow host. xD  
Anyway! This little collaboration here was invented by both Kat and myself after we realized that our tragedy stricken heroines needed some companionship that didn't involve falling in love with the infamous madcap criminal mastermind, the Joker.  
However, the Joker will be in this story, both in Cleveland form (if you have not read Dark Side of the Moon, go READ NOW so you know what we're talking about) and in Joker form.  
This is the biproduct of having too much love for our OC's, like Kat said.**

**So Enjoy ! xD**

**Harvey Tinkle and Cleveland Punsworth belong to me.  
Chelsea Grant belongs to HarlequinSequins.  
The Joker belongs to DC Comics.**

XxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Harvey

I have no money. I realize this when I lose my home and my two wrecked, stupid parents. I have no money, no place to go, no way to live. I have a degree I've never used and a method of payment that consists of my empty, broken promises.

An ad in the paper reads 'roommate wanted' by some girl named Chelsea Grant. My stomach churns at the sight of it. It's the kind of good-girl happy-name I don't take kindly to, but when one's name is Harvey, you don't take kindly to anyone, really.

So that's where I am. I'm on my way for my 'interview' as a roommate. Really, despite my occasional—ahem…_moods,_ I'm a good roommate. I'm casual, I'm quiet and, most of all, I offer occasional humor. Of course, sometimes, you may just want to jab me in the eye because I'm less than 'pleasant'.

Okay, I'm downright difficult.

In a worn, old _Beatles_ t-shirt and a pair of completely shredded jeans, I sigh laboriously and keep in mind how deeply I'd love to live in a house again without worrying about things like this.

Chelsea

Loneliness. That was all that surrounded me in the comfortable, yet grungy apartment. There was dust everywhere from lack of effort, and the old white walls were stained yellow from past smoking inhabitants, and no doubt food fights that had broken out amongst past juvenile residents.

But the fact that the apartment was empty with so many memories filling in the vacant plaster of the walls made me feel like I didn't belong in such a lively place brimmed full to the very ceiling with past laughter and family banter. I didn't feel like I did the memoirs of their ghostly presence justice.

So, I ran an ad for a roommate.

I'd paid for the thing a week ago, and so far, there was not even a prospect candidate to fill in the position. I found myself waiting by the phone during my free time, musing over the possibilities of who, if I ever got one, it would be that I would be rooming with.

Would she be sweet and perky?

Or would she be completely shy and reclusive, a little like me…

I tried to picture what she would look like, what she would be like; I even went as far as to imagine her interests and her quirks, like twirling her hair when she spoke or biting her fingernails when she was nervous. I sat by the window with a cup of tea, waiting for the phone to ring, for even a sign of knowledge out there in Gotham that I needed company…desperately.

After a solid week of no response, I began to think of reasons why no one would be calling. With the Joker and his anarchy sprees, running around Gotham, people might be more inclined to stay with family with complete strangers. That, or there were no new refugees from other cities or states…no one wanted to move to Gotham right now, not with all the problems it was having at the moment. I figured the ones that weren't able to pack up everything they had and move were the ones that were already here before the Joker arrived on the scene.

I had an extremely low chance of even receiving a call, much less having a roommate at all.

I tried to focus on my work more after the passing of the first week…one mustn't raise their hopes for the impossible.

Harvey

I can't deny that I don't force myself into a halfway decent mood. After all, the ad stated 'roommate', and the least I can do to hope for a shot at the place is be less...'myself', as everyone calls it. I suppose I'm not very...merry, shall we state. I'm not comfortable at all, in fact. I'm a bitch, according to some.

And when I arrive for the 'interview', as I suppose it's called, the girl who answers the door seems...pleasant enough to, maybe, keep me in tact. I glance upward, sighing-- she's taller than me.

Everyone is taller than me.

Is there a way for me to live in Munchkinland?

I'd feel a ton better about myself.

I fidget, full-aware that I gave my age as twenty-seven and this girl probably figures me for around ten. Hell, I figure myself for around ten. I'm cursed with baby-ish features that I can't escape from. I will be forever carded when I go to bars.

My hand sticks out, unceremoniously, and my eyebrows raise as though they're replacement for the smile I should be pasting on. "Harvey's the name."

Chelsea

Finally, I get an answer.

There was a knock at my door, and while I'm in the middle of carrying an empty laundry basket toward my room to pick up some overly used scrubs to take to the laundry mat, I freeze and my arms seem to lose all ability to hold onto anything.

The laundry basket topples from my grasp, and I'm long gone before even the tip of the hamper touches the ground. I peer out of the peeper hole – sure enough, there was someone there, looking extremely unfamiliar and therefore, I automatically designated her as a reply to the ad I had run. She's rather short, almost childlike in her lack of height, but seemingly normal enough. She even appears learned and philosophical, glasses perched on her button nose with round, yet lethargic eyes behind the spectacles. She had auburn hair, a medium shade of brown laced with little tendrils draped in shimmers of lovely red.

After a short and careless scrutiny, I pull the locks hurriedly from their sheaths and rip the door open, presented by a very petite little figure that looks rather peeved and lackluster in demeanor. But she seems safe enough…there's a snippet of paper in her hand.

She looks up at me, undoubtedly feeling awkward at the difference in stature. I'm decidedly average enough at five foot four, and this girl makes me appear giant compared to her diminutive standing. But she seems to have a remembrance for manners and uncomfortably thrusts out her hand.

"Harvey's the name." She mumbled. Her voice was neither masculine nor really irritatingly feminine, but it seemed to have no excitement in its presentation. It was almost as if she didn't even want to be here…but I ushered the thought from my head, and warmly shook her hand with a gentle smile.

"I'm Chelsea Grant."

I invited her in, letting her take in the surroundings as I set off for the kitchen to get something to drink for the two of us. My cabinets were decidedly empty as I'd not recently been grocery shopping, but there seemed to be abundance in drinks that filled my cabinets and refrigerator. Wine and liquor seemed hardly fit for the occasion, and milk was just a little too infantile for an interview. Coffee appeared the only appropriate beverage for the situation at hand.

She was sitting at the kitchen table by the time I poured two cups of tepid coffee into a pair of my plain old white mugs. They were nothing special, and as this girl appeared not to like anything frilly or feminine by the way that she dressed, I decided it had been a wise choice considering her undetermined personality.

Harvey

Pretty. Pretty is what I think when I look up, and realize how small I feel. This place reeks with the desperation of familiarity, personal touches adhering with violent need here and there, the sinking sensation like this person living here, this Chelsea, isn't cozy in her own skin. I don't even pass a mental judgment. I haven't been comfy in mine in years.

"N-Nice-- uh, nice place." I mutter, and tuck a strand nervously behind an ear. I thank her fervently for the coffee in my tiny, anxious tone. I stutter badly when I'm backed into a corner, and though this girl doesn't even have the capability to do that (I know it from the first moment I see her), I naturally get that feeling a whole lot.

I can't help but wonder what she thinks of me. Most don't know what to make of me at first sight. I seem small enough that I don't belong wandering around all on my lonesome. I've been mistaken for a ten year old from behind before.

Whoever laughs can go die. I'm serious, I'm not kidding.

"Ch-Chelsea Grant, I get that right?" I sip at my coffee, casually declining a packet of sugar. I hate anything in my coffee, really, I do, so I blow on it a little and just take it in as comfortably as can be.

Chelsea. She seems warm to me, for some reason, but I'd guess her for a receptionist or maybe a nurse. She has a sweeter look about her, and my pitiful lack of the ability to smile runs down the entirety of whatever friendly I can possibly be.

She makes me almost want to apologize for myself. People like her always do.

I keep glancing around, noting everything, taking everything in. I'm always taken for anti-social because I hate to talk-- I'm an observer, I'm the kind sitting outside the window staring in. It's easier that way, that way I'm not stuck dealing with anyone or anything. That way I can have some kind of quiet to myself, but still be involved in life, right?

I sip at the coffee again, and I understand the need to try and make this place 'comfortable'. She's the kind of person who needs personal touches, doesn't she? I kind of stew in that thought a little.

Chelsea

At last, I'm able to sit down at my post, so that I was given the chance to think up some questions as to who I was dealing with here.

The girl seemed a little nervous, at least that I was sure of…the way she curled into herself and held the cup with two hands like a vice. Most people I knew held their coffee with only one hand; she drank with two. It was almost like a stance of defense, and she looked very taut, sitting there, strung hard like a fresh bowstring. She even vibrated a little bit like a bowstring, but I didn't condemn the behavior, instead I recognized it as a habit of anxiety.

"Thank you," I said as I looked around placidly, sipping at my coffee as I leaned back comfortably in my chair. It seemed to be basking in new light now, with another human being in the room…it was almost homelike again. "I like it. But it gets kinda lonely, you know? That's why I ran the advertisement…I don't want to be alone all the time."

What could I even say to the girl? I couldn't exactly just flat out ask her things that she would probably lie about anyway, if she were really that desperate for a place to live. Only through observation would I be able to find out her real character, so I cleared my throat and decided to ask her the basics.

"So, Harvey"

I could help but think in the back of my head, even as I sifted through reasonable questions to ask, that Harvey was a highly outlandish name for a girl. The only other Harvey I knew of was a man, and the District Attorney, Harvey Dent.

Whenever I heard the name Harvey, I always thought of him…but now that I had seen the quite opposite of a tall, statuesque man with flowing blonde hair and blue eyes that practically shined with opportunity, I would have another outlook on the prerequisites for the other side of the spectrum for such a  
name. Petite, pretty with soft doe eyes behind perched spectacles, and extremely short, even for a third grade child.

I refocused my attention on the applicant in front of me, who was beginning to sip even more anxiously at her coffee now.

"Are you at all familiar with this neighborhood? We get a lower crime rate here in this area, though I couldn't really think of Gotham as having a low crime rate," I chuckled a bit, stirring the brown liquid in my coffee mug absently as I pondered the fact. "No, but we do get less here than in some places. And, as you can see, there is a lot of room for you to move in and make yourself at home in, if you decide to stay here."

Harvey

"R-Really? I'm not around Gotham much, so I'm a little...unfamiliar with the surroundings. This'd be my firsttime in the city for more than an hour." I curse under my breath for sounding like I do. I sound scared, terrified, to be honest, like I'm going to crawl under her chair and disappear into a ball of pained misery.

I decide on trusting her the smallest bit, even if it's only to give her a small break. My beef isn't as bad with girls as it is with guys-- I work worse with the opposite sex than I do with my own. It's an awkward thing. I am an awkward thing.

"I'm something of an out-of-region idiot," I study her, all soft. My voice, even toward myself, is a bit harsh despite its deceptively sweeter nature. I sound cynical, I know this, but my desires to do something about it are few and far between, "I-I'll lay all my cards on the table before I gotta go tip-toeing around to explain why I'm here. I've got no place I can run to, and I saw your ad and I figured, why not give it a shot?"

I shrug my small shoulders and every single second consists of me staring with my nervous, brownish-grey eyes into my coffee mug. As long as I don't look right at her, I know from experience, my nasty nature won't kick in. I keep it even as can be, and I keep my stare transfixed on the honestly well-brewed coffee. She earns points for this.

"I'm not a-- uh..people person, is it? I'm a little-- not so good with it, but I can't say I don't...m-mind having people around. I'm not the most secure thing in the world, it's better than being alone, I'll side with you on that."

We're being evicted from my house in a week, is what I want to explain, but I shove the thought aside. I figure the best I can do, for now, is keep as nice as I can, even if my nice is subpar-mistaken for shy. I guess I am shy, aren't I?

Chelsea

I bit back a giggle at her jittery personality, finding it would be terribly rude to find hilarity in someone else's discomfort. But the way she tittered over her coffee mug like a brittle leaf was simply adorable, if such a word could be used to describe her personality.

"Well, I'm sure that we can have you comfortable around here in no time. And as for being a people person, don't worry about that…I don't really know anyone who can be considered a people person. It's all in how you look at things. Sure, some are more anxious around people than others…but I think all of us are really afraid of one another's opinion, whether we like to admit it or not," I spoke and twirled the coffee in my cup, now cold and decidedly more bitter with the chill settling in on its contents. "I'll admit, I sometimes don't' feel comfortable around people either…but I suppose that's the way we were built, you know?"

Something in the way that her features twitched angrily told me that she was holding back a secret, whether it were dirty or not, or she was just too shy to reveal it to me. She still sounded about as comfortable as being locked in a room with hungry wolves, and at any moment, I expected her to melt into a little puddle of overexertion.

"In any case, you're welcome to stay here. The rent is kinda high for this kind of area, but I think if we split it we can be just fine. Fifteen hundred, so that means you'll only have to pay seven fifty a month. And anyway, I'm hardly around during the day…I work the dayshift at Gotham General. If you prefer to be alone sometimes, then here is where you'll find your solitude. I leave at around five thirty in the morning and I don't return home until about six thirty in the evening."

I grew bored with swirling the useless coffee I knew I wasn't going to drink and rose from my chair to pour it down the sink. I figured she'd need a minute of contemplation before springing and answer on me right on the spot, so I allowed her a little time to think. The tap water flowed easily into cascades of transparent water, and I filled the cup three times with the cold, clear fluid before stuffing the mug into the empty dishwasher and swiped my hands clean of the coffee-stained water.

Harvey

There's the most anxious silence to me, and I clear my throat kind of nervously, then lower the volume when I realize how obvious I'm being. Now, in my twenty-seven years of life, I've learned a trick--

My anxiety all springs to form when I look right at someone, when I make direct contact. I'm like a dog in that way. I retreat, I get snippy, I jump into the nearest corner.

So I take my glasses off and glance up at the blob of color I assume is Chelsea. She fits her name, I quip, mentally, the thought of it all too ironic. She's nice, very nice, almost too sweet.

People tell me I have great eyes, but, in my opinion, they're pretty much dull. Cold and dead, if you ask me, brown and gray. Everyone else says the opposite-- warm, doe eyes. I hate that description. My dad used to say I was the perfect candidate for the song 'Brown-Eyed Girl'. My dad was also an unpleasant man to be around for a good eighty percent of the time.

I nibble at the arm of my rimless glasses and contemplate that offer with a little obvious intrigue. There's a little spark of life in the back of my head, something that, here and there, ignites itself with a falsely eager alarm, and I raise my eyebrows again.

If you're with me long enough, you'll learn that's how I talk. Watch my face, and you can have a normal, entire conversation with me.

"I-I accept the offer, Miss Gr-Grant."


End file.
